


Before I Learned Civility

by ifigo



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Catherine and Arthur weren't supposed to be here but neither you nor I can stop me, F/M, POV Multiple, Sad with a Happy Ending, cw: off-screen house fire resulting in off-screen oc character death, it's the royal siblings when they were small and kind and mostly unjaded, kidfic but not firstprince kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29611989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifigo/pseuds/ifigo
Summary: A fire, a hedge, a record player. A relocation, a realization, a risk. A happy ending.It’s August 4, 2003, and someone new just moved into Kensington Palace. The rest, as they say, is history.Title and inspiration from Taylor Swift’s “seven”
Relationships: Arthur Fox/Catherine Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor & Martha Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back at it again with really niche fics for an audience of one
> 
> cw: discussions of an off-screen house fire resulting in off-screen oc character deaths

**Arthur**

It had been an exhaustingly long day. 

He would happily accept running some of the events or giving the speeches that seemed to happen every week, that was all comfortably in his wheelhouse. He was good at it - he could handle a crowd of the general public or woo diplomats and statesmen all day and night. Selfishly, he thought it would probably be good for the monarchy to get him out of the cage to meet people as a real person. 

Instead of doing any of that, the Queen had, of course, decided to continue her most recent charade of making his life as dull as possible, siphoning off any big events that weren’t directly tied to the Wales name to her younger daughters, for them and their stately, court-approved husbands to handle. Mary had in turn found a way to squeeze even more paperwork into Arthur’s summer than ever before, keeping him shut up in an office at home or in meeting rooms at Buckingham day in and day out, seemingly never to see the light of day. 

He’d really lost the in-law lottery. 

Needless to say, Arthur was happy to be home. 

His mood was dampened, however, by the news he had learned on his way across the courtyard. 

-

Arthur walks down the long hall slowly, careful to keep his socked feet off the squeakiest floorboards. He didn’t want to be caught before he had figured out exactly how to break the news to his wife. 

Catherine had taken her work home for the day, and at some point must have chosen to open up the windows along the hall to allow the summer air to flow across the typically dark space. The whole family was noticeably cheerier when the windows were open; the palace felt more like a home. Outside, the trees in the garden were full and green, and the breeze smelled faintly of flowers. He didn’t want to be the one to ruin the good mood, but somebody had to tell her, and she would take it best from him. 

Finally, he throws his shoulders back and walks into the sitting room.

Catherine is in her usual spot on the settee, curled up with her feet under her, thick novel in hand and glasses on the tip of her nose. She, predictably, doesn’t notice when he walks in. 

The sight cracks the edges of Arthur’s foggy mood, drawing his mouth into a quiet smile. 

“Hey,” he says lightly, breaking the bubble. 

“Hi,” Catherine smiles up at him, laying the open book down across her leg to hold the page. Nearly twenty years together, and she still perks up every time he comes home. “How was your day?”

“Mildly drudgerous,” he leans down for a kiss hello before settling on the seat next to her, “and somewhat dreary,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat. He smiles at her, but it’s no use, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

She tilts her head just a touch, looking at him over her glasses as though she’s reading him, and he knows he’s in for it now. It must have been something in his tone, or his tight-set jaw. 

“Arthur,” Catherine tests, “is something wrong?”

He sighs, eyes flitting to the side. This wasn’t going to be easy. It was probably best to rip the bandage off quickly. “Has anyone told you about the Barnetts yet? Tyler and Alyssa?” 

The Barnetts were common faces in the margins of Catherine and Arthur’s lives; Tyler was an earl, and Alyssa had been in Catherine’s year in school. They went back forever, in and out of each other’s circles, not speaking regularly, but always exchanging Christmas cards and catching up excitedly at those dinner parties they all loathed. They were close enough for comfort, each counting on the others for the occasional quick getaway at long events, hoping to trade dreadful conversations for honest laughs and a stiff drink. They were friends. It was nice. 

“What is it?” Catherine asks, the concern in her pinched brow matching what Arthur feels. “Did something happen?” She removes her book from her lap, noting the page number before setting it on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Your sister met me on the way up the stairs,” he pauses, gauging the mood before continuing, shifting just a bit closer across the upholstered seat. “There was a fire at their house yesterday afternoon. Tyler and Alyssa didn’t make it out, and neither did their son.” 

“Oh my,” Catherine mumbles, lost for something to say. Her hands fidget in her lap. “I was supposed to have lunch with her the week after next.”

She glances away to some far-off corner of the room, swallowing with great effort. Finally, she turns back to him, eyes misty. “Do they know what started it?” 

“They’re still looking, but they’re almost certain it was a kitchen fire gone out of control.” Arthur, for once, doesn’t know what to say either. Senseless tragedy will do that to a person, he supposes. 

Catherine nods and gets up gingerly, wandering to the window. She holds one hand to her chest, rolling her necklace between her fingers as she looks down into the garden. The record that was playing when Arthur entered the room has spun out. Comically, he finds that he appreciates the walking metaphor. 

He’s noticed over the years that tragedy always seems to hit Catherine like a punch to the gut, even when they aren’t as personal as this. In times like these, there’s nothing Arthur can do to help her besides be present, and it hurts. He wants to be able to take the pain away, but he can’t. All he can do is be by her side. 

He waits a minute then follows, standing behind her, rubbing his hand down her arm, watching her watch the ground two stories below. 

Eventually, Catherine tilts her head back into his chest, sighing. “You said their son didn’t make it,” she whispers. Speaking aloud makes it real. “What about their daughter?” 

He nods. “She’s perfectly alright- scared, poor thing, I’m sure, but there was hardly a scratch on her. She told the medics that James got her out.” Her older brother saved her, had made sure she got out even when he couldn’t. He had only been fourteen, maybe fifteen. He’d never be any older. 

“Christ. I couldn’t imagine,” Catherine says. 

He follows her gaze out the window and is startled to find that what she’s been watching so intently this whole time is their own kids, playing in the garden without a care in the world. 

Arthur shakes his head, pressing a kiss into her hair. 

They watch in silence as, below, Bea and Philip play - she sneaks up behind him and pushes his shoulder; he laughs with her, head thrown to the sky. 

“They’ve moved her in with her aunt and uncle,” Arthur pushes on, praying he can will the lingering fear away. 

Catherine whips around, staring at him. “They’ve moved her in with Marcus and Ruth? From across the courtyard?” He nods, and Catherine shakes her head. “They’re hardly fit to raise a child. Far too stern and unloving.” 

“I hate to agree,” he hesitates. It was true, the Barnetts from across the courtyard were the polar opposites of the Barnetts from across town. Much less love and laughter, far more severity and silence. He could hardly hold a conversation with either of them, he couldn’t begin to imagine how being raised by them would feel. 

“When we see her,” Arthur offers, “what do you think about extending an invitation to come over on occasion, for dinner or something?” 

“I think that’s a brilliant idea,” she almost smiles, tight-lipped, a plan coming together in her head. “I don’t want her to feel stuck. And I think it would be good for the children to have someone else close to their age nearby.” 

“I agree. If she’ll have us.” He sighs a long, deep sigh, rubbing his hand down her arm again, more for his own comfort than hers. “Do you think she’ll be alright?” 

Catherine meets his gaze once more, blue eyes hard. “That girl is clever and resilient. And she can read a room even better than any of our kids.” She looks back out the window, the steadfast image of a shepherd watching over her flock. “As long as she stands her ground with her aunt and uncle, Martha will be just fine.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha takes a walk and gets dirt on her dress.

**Martha**

There were burns on her hands. The straps on her new kid-sized pale pink duffle bag tore into them as she moped behind her aunt, head hung low, following her down the dark stuffy hall and into her new life. The tips of her hair still smelt of the fire. Her blonde curls were shorter now, just brushing her shoulders. 

Her aunt turns the corner, holding open a starch-white door for Martha to walk through. 

The room was simple yet of modest size, with a wooden desk and dark dresser on one side, and a large neat bed on the other, the walls painted an institutional white. Across from the doorway, the room were two tall windows with flowing curtains, framing a perfect view of the gardens two stories below. 

“This is where you will stay. The room is yours, but don’t scratch the walls,” Ruth stated, her tone unforgiving and cold. Her meaning was clear: _this is your house but not your home, don’t leave any marks that can’t be washed clean_.

She was left alone to unpack, slowly. She didn’t have many clothes, not anymore - what she did have was all new and crisp. She no longer had her old worn riding boots, or her favorite teal Sunday dress, or the thick ribbons her mother would weave through her hair. Now, she wore a simple gray gingham sundress and shiny little black shoes. Perfect to blend into the background. It was the same material but so far from the same feeling as before - her old clothes were all lived in, personal - someone else had bought these, maybe her aunt or the nice man at the social worker’s office, but either way, they didn’t know her, and she didn’t know them. All the people she knew were back at home - no, back where she was _from_. They were at her old school, in her old neighborhood, or, well. Or they were dead. 

After she was done unpacking Martha tiptoed back down the hallway to the sitting room, trying her best not to interrupt the silence with the squeak of an ancient floorboard. Her family’s house had never been silent, quiet sometimes of course, but never like this, never hung with a silence so bone-deep. 

She found Aunt Ruth reading a magazine, readers perching on the end of her long nose, one hand daintily wielding a long pipe. Martha made her way delicately to the middle of the room, hands behind her back like her father taught her. 

“Aunt Ruth?” she whispered, careful. Who knew breaking the silence would be so _loud_.

Her aunt didn’t look up. “Yes?” she replied. Her tone had gone no more loving in Martha’s absence. 

“Where is Uncle Marcus?” she asked. He hadn’t come to the offices to pick Martha up, nor had he been home when she arrived. One would think taking in a child would warrant one’s presence, at least in her mind. She would like to meet the man who is meant to care for her. 

Her aunt sighs then licks her finger and flips the tabloid to the next spread, scanning it passively, waiting. “I thought I told you to ask fewer questions.” 

Martha was yet to ask any questions, besides where her room was. 

When she offers no explanation or apology, Ruth answers anyway, “He is at work. Your uncle is a very busy and very important man.” 

That made sense, Martha supposed. She had been informed this morning that her uncle is an Admiral of the Royal Navy, and she wasn’t entirely sure what that meant yet, but it did sound impressive. “Is he away?” Martha inquires politely. “I’ve heard the Navy travels to places that are quite interesting.”

“No, he is downtown. It’s been a very boring day at the office, I’m told.”

Oh. 

Ruth takes another long drag off her pipe. 

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks on. 

It’s all too much too soon. 

“I’m sorry for the questions,” Martha rushes, strained. “But how many people live here? And are there any other children?” Maybe if she can find a friend, everything will become a little bit closer to alright. 

Her aunt’s head jolts up, like an owl zeroing in on prey. “Yes,” her aunt says, with more determinism than she has used all morning. Martha almost jumps back; the whiplash is terrifying. “There are about fifty people that live here, and three other children.” 

She wants to know why her aunt is making such a small personal scene over this, but she knows better than to ask another question. The only better option is to get out of here. The front door is no more than three steps behind her. 

“Would it be alright if I went outside and looked around?” Martha asks. 

“You may,” her aunt says, voice rising, in praise or bold contemplation, she can’t tell. “Only do not leave the bounds and do not touch anything. Good luck, dear.”

-

The courtyard outside is still quiet, but at least there are birds, and cars out in the distant real world. Without another soul in sight, Martha turns against the wind and heads towards the main gardens. 

Besides her aunt, no one else had spoken to her since her arrival this morning, and the few unrecognizable people that she had seen barely thought to spared her a second glance. Everything was fenced off and boxed away to keep up appearances inside and out, even where the few residents who weren’t royals lived. She didn’t know why anyone would want to live here. There was nothing to do, and a whole world just outside the gates. Inside, it was just courtyards surrounded by towering clean brick walls, high arches, sprawling grounds, and pricey objects she felt guilty for looking at too long. 

But at least outside in the pristine gardens, she didn’t have to try and make sense of her aunt. 

Martha was inching down the pathway along the edge of the building, head bowed, kicking up peddles as she went, when a little voice over her shoulder pulled her from her thoughts.

“ _Hey,_ ” someone whispered. Martha stops - it sounded like a kid. “Hello?” the little voice asks again, hesitant. 

Finally, she turns around. 

There is no one there, just the palace to the right and the open yard to the left. 

_Grief hallucinations_ , she thinks, turning to keep walking. _That’s what these must-_

“Hey, over here!” the voice calls again.

Martha takes a deep breath, pinching her eyes shut. It didn’t sound like anybody she knew, so, might as well investigate. They weren’t anywhere in sight, and the only other option was, well-

“Are you under the hedges?” she asks carefully, voice hoarse. She turns back and edges forward off the gravel pathway into the shadow of the palace, leaning over to peer behind the greenery. 

There is shuffling of branches, then half a face appears between two limbs. Her instincts had been correct: the voice did belong to a kid. He was little, probably no more than six. “More behind than under,” he says. “Come with me?”

Well, she had nothing left to lose. 

“Oh, alright,” Martha agrees. She crawls through the gap between the branches, and finds herself immersed in the little world behind the hedges. 

The greenery was meant to be decoration, she’s sure, to spruce up the dark walls for the general masses. But in the meantime, they created a fantastic hiding spot for creative kids. There’s a slight gap between the bush and the wall, just big enough for a kid or two, where the grass hasn’t grown and the sun’s blaze has faded to a cool simmer. Looking out she can’t see very far, but the pathway she was just walking on is in full view. 

Martha sighs as she leans back against the cold brick wall. Thankfully she wore shorts under her dress, but there was nothing she could do to hide the dirt that was bound to be on her skirt now. 

Finally remembering herself, she turns to the kid who got her to come under here in the first place. He’s watching her in return, bright blue eyes shining out from underneath choppy light blond hair, tousled into a nest on his head. He looks familiar, she thinks, underneath all the dirt on his… well, everywhere. 

“Hi.” The kid uncurls himself, extending a hand to her. She’s momentarily struck by how serious he is about this meeting. “I’m Henry.” 

_Oh_. Yeah, of course, he’s Prince Henry, that would make sense. 

And there’s nothing else for her to do but to take his hand and shake it, now is there? “I’m Martha.”

“Are you visiting?” Henry asks politely. He leans against the wall, matching her, knees pulled to his chest. 

“I’m not, actually,” Martha replies. She tries not the grimace, picking at the hem of her dress. “I’ve just moved in with my aunt and uncle. I live here now.”

“Oh,” Henry says. He’s quiet and a little grim, like maybe he understands more than she’s let on. “I know everyone here. Who are your aunt and uncle?”

“Ruth and Marcus Barnett,” she says, sober. “We’re in the second door in the smallest courtyard.”

Henry thinks on it for a minute, pursing his lips as he watches a bug inch across a leaf by his nose. “That’s just across the courtyard from the back entrance to my house,” he settles. He grins at her, suddenly excited. “You should come over! There are no other kids here besides me and my brother and sister, and they get terribly boring all summer.”

She smiles despite herself. The youngest prince was turning into quite a good distraction from everything else that happened to her in the past day. 

“Maybe.” She’d always been allowed to visit people nearby back at home, but here her rules might be different. “It would have to be okay with my aunt, I suppose. And your parents, of course.”

“My parents would like you, you’re nice and pretty, and they like just about anybody,” Henry delivers. He gives her an innocent once-over, nearly bouncing in his seat. “Pip and Bea too, I think you’re about the same age.”

She was a few months shy of eleven, almost perfectly in-between his siblings in age, but thought it best not to admit to knowing that off the top of her head. 

“Okay, I suppose I will,” she lies. 

She didn’t think it would actually happen, she figured his parents would take one look at her and her scuffed shoes and send her out the door, unfit for their company. Then again, she was hiding under a bush with their youngest child, who was covered head to toe in dirt and was nursing a slightly bruised cheek. Hiding behind a hedge, knees to his chest, Henry wasn’t exactly the picture-perfect little heir the red carpets and newspapers painted him to be.

She watches him watch a ladybug. “Why are you hiding under a bush anyway, Henry?”

Henry stills. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, plucking a fallen leaf off the ground and spinning it between his little fingers. When he looks back at her he almost seems sad. “It’s just, if I’m hiding down here, I can see everything but no one can see me, unless I want them to. It’s nice.”

“So why invite me? If you want to be alone.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Henry states with some urgency. “Sometimes, I just don’t want everyone to know my name. This is the best I have. I can disappear into thin air and for a moment, pretend like not everybody thinks they know me.” He stares at her. “You looked like you could use an escape too.”

He had a fantastic point, she thought. Everything has to be too much sometimes, must it, for everyone?

Maybe Henry and the others wouldn’t all be as stiff as she thought royals were meant to be. Maybe they weren’t made in a factory, from cookie cutter molds, ready to be filled and sent marching. 

Maybe she could be okay, here, with them. 

Maybe they could be human too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I couldn't really resist giving Martha depth and a Tragic Backstory
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated


End file.
